


Becoming Three

by FlannelEpicurean



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Birth, Domestic, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mpreg, Murder Husbands, Omega Verse, Omega Will, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlannelEpicurean/pseuds/FlannelEpicurean
Summary: Hannibal and Will mate, resulting in a surprise pregnancy.





	1. Conception

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic sex in the first chapter, but not after. So if you're sensitive to graphic content, feel free to skip.

Will presents so prettily. The thought won’t leave Hannibal’s mind. The way Will’s back arches as he sticks his ass out. The way he tilts his head back, inviting the alpha to grab hold of his sweat-soaked curls. The way he stills his desperate moaning into whispering sighs. Serving himself up like an exquisite dish. But one to be savored, or to be devoured?

Hannibal’s instincts go to war with his intellect. It is no longer the refined that calls to him, but the base. The fevered flush of Will’s skin. The sweat beading on his brow, between his shoulder blades. The trembling of his limbs as he holds himself locked in position. The jumping of his pulse in his crimson throat. The slick wetness running down his thighs. 

The sheer reek of sexual need rolls off the omega in waves. Hannibal breathes in the heady scent, taking it deep into his lungs, letting it cloy his senses until he is quite drunk on it. 

With a roar of mourning for his lost self-control, Hannibal lunges forward, pressing his engorged cock between Will’s thighs, coating it with slick as he ruts against Will, growling deep in his throat. Will gasps, his whole body shivering, and pushes his ass up further, begging Hannibal to enter him. 

Hannibal plunges into Will, finally drawing a sound greater than a hiss of breath from the trembling omega. Will gives out a high-pitched squeal that resonates through Hannibal as though a string has been plucked deep inside him, echoing a harmony with the sweet music pouring out of Will’s throat. Hannibal gives a low whine and pushes deeper into Will, loses himself in the act of mating, the feral pleasure of pounding into the omega over and over, the feeling of their hips slamming together, of Will’s ass bouncing under his hands. He digs his fingers into Will’s flesh, revels in the keening cries that burst from Will. 

Hannibal licks his lips, tastes his own sweat, smells his own scent mingling with Will’s. He reaches forward with one hand, buries his fingers in Will’s soaking curls, and shoves his head down into the bedclothes. Will yelps against the tangled blankets as Hannibal’s fingers tighten against his scalp, pulling savagely at his hair. 

The sound drives Hannibal wild. He tugs again, and Will moans, high and long. Hannibal throws his head back, a hot tingle running up and down his spine as his knot begins to swell. He slows his thrusting, pressing himself deep inside Will instead, anticipating. He releases Will’s hair, taking hold of his neck instead, reaching around with his other hand and seizing hold of Will’s cock. Will howls as Hannibal pumps furiously at his cock. Hannibal breathes hard and fast through his nose as Will grinds into him, contracting against his knot. Will begins to weep helplessly as his cum sprays across the bedclothes. Hannibal lets go a long, deep, satisfied groan as he spurts into Will. 

They sag together against the messy blankets, panting, exhausted. 

“Do it,” Will whispers. 

Hannibal gulps back a breath. “What?” He raises himself slightly, careful to keep his still-engorged knot inside Will. 

“Do it.” Will tilts his head, offering his neck up. “I’m ready.”

“Will,” Hannibal begins. 

Will closes his eyes gently, lets his mouth melt into a sleepy smile. “Hannibal,” he says, his voice strong, “I’m ready.” 

Hannibal hangs there for a moment. Leans back down to Will. Presses his lips to Will’s neck, a tender kiss, before he opens his mouth and bites down, hard. The omega gasps, writhes against him, shudders, and is finally still. 

The deed is done. The swell of Hannibal’s knot goes down, and he slips out of Will. Will rolls over onto his back, eyes still shut, mouth slack, his brows slightly drawn. 

“Will?” Hannibal murmurs, his voice husky. 

Will’s raises his hand up, finds Hannibal’s face, cups his cheek. His eyes flutter open, and a radiant smile breaks out across his face. Tears pool in his eyes. “Hannibal,” he whispers. “My alpha.”

Hannibal finds himself smiling back, his own eyes damp. “Will. My omega,” he answers.


	2. Gravidity

“Will, are you feeling all right?” Hannibal asks, his brows drawing together. Will has been pale and sluggish for days. Now he’s lying in bed, covered in a light sheen of sweat. He glistens in the early morning light. 

“No,” Will answers, rolling over to face Hannibal. “I feel like crap.”

Hannibal leans down and presses his lips to Will’s forehead for a moment, a lingering kiss. “You don’t feel feverish.”

Will cocks a brow. “You can tell that from a kiss?”

“Most people do use the back of their hand, but,” Hannibal explains, “I’ve found the greater sensitivity of the lips reads the temperature more accurately.” 

“So what’s my temperature?” Will asks, a hint of playfulness creeping back into his voice. 

“Ninety-nine Fahrenheit,” Hannibal answers. 

“Isn’t that a little warm? Shouldn’t I be ninety-eight point six?”

Hannibal shakes his head gently. “A common misconception. That is simply an accepted average. Normal body temperature varies by person, and is affected by many factors. But suffice it to say, yours is perfectly healthy.”

Will groans. “Then why do I feel so bad?”

Hannibal smooths Will’s hair back from his forehead. “What are your symptoms?”

Will shrugs. “I just feel like I’m coming down with something.”

“Would you like me to make you some breakfast?” Hannibal offers. 

Will sits up slowly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Some coffee at least?”

Will turns even paler. “I don’t think I can handle coffee. The smell.”

Hannibal tilts his head slightly. “Will, are you coming into heat again?”

Will looks up, his face frozen between skepticism and panic. “It’s...it’s only been a few months,” he says. 

A few blissful months, Hannibal thinks. He does not smile, but his eyes twinkle in a way that makes the corners of Will’s mouth tug upward unconsciously. “It is not uncommon for a heat to be preceded by flu-like symptoms, Will,” Hannibal says. “Sweating, fever, a general malaise, stomach upset. And heightened senses.”

“I just,” Will leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, “this doesn’t feel like a heat. I just feel like I’m getting sick.”

Hannibal leans toward Will, nuzzles against Will’s skin, inhales. “You smell different,” he informs Will. 

“What do you mean?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I’m not sure what it is. Yet. But your hormones are balanced differently.”

Will gets to his feet. Stretches. “It could be the bonding. Things settling out.”

Hannibal stands, comes up behind Will. Wraps his arms around his omega. Plants a kiss on his shoulder. “Perhaps.”

\--------

Will reaches for another carrot stick, looking absolutely miserable. 

Hannibal stands at the counter in his apron, dutifully slicing up more vegetables. “Will,” he says, his tone patient, “you should see a doctor.”

“It’s only been a couple of days.” Will sips at his glass of cold mint tea. “And I’m starting to feel better. Really. The tea’s helping.” 

Hannibal sets down the knife. “Three days ago you said you thought you were coming down with something. Since then you haven’t been able to keep anything down but raw vegetables and cold tea.” He lays his hand over his mate’s. “I’m worried about you, Will,” he admits. 

At that, Will looks up. Some color returns to his face. “I’m...I’ll be fine. This will pass.”

Hannibal sighs through his nose, looks down at the cutting board. “No one is looking for us, Will. You can see a doctor without fear.” He makes eye contact with Will again. “Please.”

Will toys with the carrot stick for a moment, then sets it down on his plate. “One more day?” he asks.

“Will,” Hannibal says sternly. 

“I’m starting to feel better,” Will protests. “I just think I’m going to recover. This is gonna blow over and I’ll be fine.”

Hannibal leans forward. “Salsa,” he says. 

Will’s face loses all color. He runs for the bathroom, gagging. 

Hannibal follows, immediately contrite. “Will, I’m sorry,” he calls after his fleeing omega. 

Will skids to a halt in front of the toilet and empties his stomach noisily. Hannibal winces and ducks into the bathroom. He squats down next to Will and starts to rub his back, but Will waves him off and goes back to vomiting. 

Hannibal waits for Will to finish, and then tries again, laying a hesitant hand on Will’s shoulder. 

Will swallows hard. “Ugh,” he groans. “How can I be so hungry when I feel so nauseous?”

“You’ve barely eaten anything for almost a week,” Hannibal answers. “Are you getting your appetite back?”

Will sighs. Flushes the toilet. “It’s been back,” he says, his irritation plain, “I just haven’t been able to eat.”

Hannibal keeps his touch light, begins to massage Will’s shoulders. The omega leans into it with an appreciative whimper. “Will,” Hannibal tries, “let’s make you an appointment.”

Will sighs. Capitulates. “Yeah. Okay.”

\--------

The ride home is silent. 

Hannibal cannot settle his emotions; he is torn between joy and apprehension. And something else. Something deeper that he cannot yet put a name to. 

Pregnant. Will is pregnant.

He cannot fathom it yet. And Will...Will had shown no emotion whatsoever upon hearing the news.Will had not said a thing since the words had come from the doctor’s mouth. He had seemed to shut down completely, leaving Hannibal to thank the doctor for the news and receive the referral for a male pregnancy specialist. 

Driving back to the house, Hannibal senses a storm brewing in Will. He can’t begin to guess the emotions roiling inside his omega, but he can guess at their cause. At least in part. 

Something had held him back, that rainy night. Despite his feelings of betrayal, that deep, gut-wrenching agony, he had kept his hand in check. 

Surgical. 

Not enough to kill. 

Just enough to make him feel that pain, to share that pain. Just enough for a proper goodbye. 

He knew, at the time, that he had damaged Will’s reproductive organs. He knew, deep in his mind, exactly how badly he had damaged them, but he had never allowed the knowledge to surface. To rear its ugly head. 

Now, he doubts that knowledge. He questions everything. 

Everything except his love for Will, and for the child he now carries. 

As soon as Hannibal parks the car, Will gets out and goes inside. Hannibal hesitates, standing stoic beside the vehicle. Then, resolved, he makes his way up the walk, to the front door. 

He half expects to find it locked, but Will has left it standing open. Hannibal shuts it, and follows the scent of his omega—now unmistakable as the smell of pregnancy hormones—through the house. 

He pauses. Will has disappeared into his own bedroom—or what used to be his bedroom, before he and Hannibal had bonded, and begun sharing a bed. He tries the knob, and finds that this door is indeed locked to him. “Will?” he calls softly.

“Not now.” Will’s voice sharp as shattered glass. 

“Will,” Hannibal tries again, aching to go to his omega. 

Footsteps thundering across the floor. The rough click of a lock being turned too quickly. The door jerks open a fraction, and Will’s tear-streaked face appears in the crack. “Not. Now,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Slams the door shut again. Turns the lock. 

Hannibal sighs. Heads for his own room. 

\--------

Hannibal suffers the silence bravely. For four days, he wanders the house alone. He takes to the kitchen and carves lovely, elaborate patterns and shapes from a fine selection of fresh vegetables. He brews gallons of mint tea. He leaves a tray outside Will’s room three times a day, retreats to the library, and returns an hour or two later to collect the empty tray. At least Will is eating. But he still won’t come out. Won’t speak. 

Sometimes Hannibal listens at the door when he delivers or collects the tray. Just to check and see if Will is still alive, still well. Sometimes he hears Will crying, and his heart aches. He wants nothing more than to go to his omega and wipe away the tears, to stop the pain. But he remembers that he is likely the cause of the pain, and his heartache flares hot. Were it any other alpha, any other person, who had caused his omega such pain, he would rush to them and tear out their throat with his teeth. 

The first night, Hannibal returns to his own room to sleep. But Will’s scent is everywhere, imprinted on everything. He hugs the duvet to himself, inhales the smell of Will, the smell of skin and sweat and lovemaking that lingers there. His throat tightens. 

When he finally sleeps, he dreams that Will is back in his bed, back in his arms. When he wakes, he feels empty. 

After that, he sleeps on the couch. 

On the fifth day of Will’s seclusion, Hannibal wakes with every hair on his body standing on end, and a terrible burning in his gut. It is not anger; it is not hunger; it is something of both. 

He must hunt. 

\--------

Hannibal dons his apron and opens his box of recipe cards, searching. After a time, he gives up. He doesn’t really need a recipe. He can cook an arm without one. 

He spends hours in the kitchen, losing himself in his art. Creating perfection. 

He sets only one place at the table. 

Just as he opens the wine, he hears soft footsteps approaching. 

Will. Standing before him at last, a rumpled mess in pajamas and a robe, looking like he just rolled out of bed after a terrible night’s sleep. 

“Will,” Hannibal breathes. Looks down at the beautiful meal he has prepared. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The smell must be—”

“It smells delicious,” Will rumbles, his eyes fixed on Hannibal’s plate. 

Hannibal slides his chair back, stands, gestures for Will to sit. Will stalks over and takes his place at the table, begins to tuck into the food, cutting into the meat and shoving it into his mouth ravenously. He barely chews before he gulps each bite down. He cleans the plate thoroughly, all but bending to lick it. 

Hannibal stands over him, a beatific smile beginning to brighten his features. “More?” he asks. 

Will nods, still chewing. 

Hannibal returns to the kitchen, fills two plates, brings them to the table. Will attacks his food as soon as it is set in front of him. After more than a week of nothing but vegetables and tea, he seems ready to make up for lost time. 

Hannibal sits across from him, sipping his wine and taking delicate bites in between sneaking glances at his omega. If it were anyone else, the terrible table manners, the lack of restraint, of decorum or dignity, would offend him. But watching his pregnant mate finally eat a hot meal, finally eat something he has cooked with care and precision, fills him with relief, and a welling sense of affectionate pride. 

After three heaping servings, Will pushes his plate away and tilts his face to the ceiling with a satisfied sigh. He rubs his stomach contentedly. Looks at Hannibal with sleepy eyes. “That was excellent.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal smiles. “I’m so happy to see you eating again, Will.”

Will rubs his face with both hands. “Whatever this is, the smell didn’t make me sick. It made me hungry.” He looks at his alpha again. “Can you make it again? Maybe tomorrow?” He chuckles, “Maybe every day until I have this baby?”

Hannibal takes a sip of his wine. “That would require quite a lot of hunting,” he says. 

Will considers. “Well,” he sighs, “maybe the morning sickness won’t last long. I can’t ask you to hunt for me that often.” 

Hannibal puts down his glass. “But I would.”

Will shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

Hannibal gets up from his place at the table, goes and kneels at Will’s side, looking up into his omega’s eyes. “Will,” he says, his voice steady and clear, “for you, for this child, I would do anything. If it meant keeping you healthy, I would hunt every night.”

“Hannibal,” Will begins. 

Hannibal clasps Will’s hand in his own. “Will, I owe you that. After everything, I owe you that.”

Will looks down. Squeezes Hannibal’s hand, and then lets it go. Rubs at his forehead. Stares at a point somewhere across the room. “Hannibal,” he says quietly, “when you…” his voice falters, “when you cut me. I thought. I thought this was beyond me.”

Hannibal watches Will’s face, wishing his omega would look at him again. “I know,” he whispers.

“But now…” Will’s voice breaks. “Now it’s like this…” he blinks rapidly, “like this miracle has happened. And…” He looks down at his stomach. “And I don’t know what…” his breath hitches. He covers his eyes with his hand. “I’m sorry.” 

Hannibal places a steadying hand on Will’s knee. Lets him cry it out for a few moments. Then, when he is sure, puts his arms around Will and gathers the omega to his chest. Will burrows into him, into the familiar warmth and safety of his alpha. 

Will chuckles through his tears. “We’re having a baby.” 

Hannibal holds Will close, strokes his hair. “That is all that matters to me now, Will.”

Will looks up at Hannibal. “Everything that came before...” he breathes. “Does it matter now?”

Hannibal kisses Will’s forehead. “Not if you don’t want it to.”

Will takes Hannibal’s hand. Guides it to his stomach. “This...we can have this. This can be ours. Right?”

Heat radiates into Hannibal’s palm. He imagines he can feel the stirring of life inside Will. “This can be ours,” he answers. 

\--------

Hannibal runs his hand over the growing swell of Will’s belly. Feels a tiny foot kick against his hand. Smiles. Kisses Will’s neck. 

Will shifts, reaches, pulls his pillow back between his knees. “Every time you do that, she starts kicking,” he mumbles. 

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal says, nuzzling deeper into Will’s neck. “I can’t help it.” 

“I know.” Will reaches back and caresses Hannibal’s jaw. “But I have to sleep. You know what the doctor said.” 

Hannibal nods against Will’s shoulder. “Your body is going through a great many changes, very quickly, and you need your rest.”

“Right.” Will gives a huge yawn and drapes an arm over his belly. “So if you want to get cuddly, you’ll have to find some other way.”

Hannibal trails a finger down Will’s spine. “I could rub your back for you,” he suggests. 

Will turns his head toward Hannibal. “Would you?”

“Of course, Will.” He slides his hands down to Will’s lower back, right where he knows it constantly aches from the weight of carrying the child, and begins to gently knead the muscles there with his palms. Will gives a little groan of gratitude. Hannibal increases the pressure, going deeper, and feels Will relax into his touch.

“She’s starting to settle down,” Will murmurs. “Don’t stop.” 

Hannibal continues massaging Will’s back, listening as his omega’s breathing becomes slow and even. He smiles when he hears a faint snore, and turns the massage into a light caress, slowly stilling his hands and resting them against Will’s skin. He props himself up on one elbow and simply watches Will sleep. 

Hannibal has been fascinated by the changes in Will since the pregnancy began, but now, in the third trimester, it has turned to awe. He finds his gaze lingering on Will while time slips by unnoticed, finds himself sidling up to his mate just to scent him, over and over. Will’s body is changing so much, and it is more than just the swelling of his belly. He has gained some weight, softening and rounding in the most pleasing ways. His chest has begun to plump into small breasts. And between his legs, a cleft is beginning to develop, signaling further, internal changes. Soon the birth canal will form, and the cleft will open, and then they will only have to wait a few short weeks to meet their child. 

Hannibal slides closer to Will, spoons up against him, inhales his scent. He knows he should rise and begin his own day, but he cannot tear himself away. He smiles. Chastises himself inwardly for having become such a doting sap. Will’s pregnancy hormones have as strong an effect on him as Will’s heats. He loves taking care of Will, providing for him in every way possible. He loves rubbing Will’s back, massaging his swollen ankles. He loves satisfying Will’s every crazy culinary craving. He loves kissing Will’s tears away when he becomes emotional over the slightest things. And he loves hunting to feed him. 

Hannibal misses hunting with Will, of course. But with Will so heavily pregnant, he can’t keep up, and besides, Hannibal won’t risk his mate being injured. Will’s style of killing is so raw, so personal, so intimate. He likes to tangle with his prey, to overcome it directly. 

Out of the question. 

Will is accepting enough of the arrangement. But every time, he takes Hannibal’s face in his hands and looks deep into his eyes, and murmurs, “Promise me you’ll be careful.” Hannibal always nods and returns, “I promise.” And each time, they seal the pact with a lingering kiss. Then Hannibal ducks away into the darkness, out into the raw, clean air that sings in his nostrils, raises the hairs on the back of his neck, rouses the beast in him. 

Will always stands in the door for a few moments, arm draped over his belly, watching his alpha transform.


	3. Birth

Hannibal leaps up at the sound of a glass shattering on the floor, and dashes to the kitchen. He finds Will doubled over, clutching his belly. Immediately goes to Will’s side. “Will,” he says, taking his omega’s hand, “are you all right?”

“Ha...Hannibal,” Will gasps, squeezing his alpha’s hand. He takes a few breaths and slowly straightens up. “Just...one hell of a contraction.”

Hannibal guides Will away from the broken glass on the floor. “How long have you been having contractions?”

Will’s breath comes rapidly. “Since this morning,” he admits. 

Hannibal stops in his tracks. “This morning? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Will avoids his gaze. Licks his lips. But as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, his face crumples into a mask of pain and he doubles over again. 

“We’re going to the hospital,” Hannibal declares. 

“No!” Will exclaims, clutching at Hannibal’s arm. “Hannibal, I’m not ready.” His eyes are wild, frantic.

Hannibal takes Will’s hands in his own. “Will,” he says in a soothing tone, “this baby is coming, and fast. We need to get you to the hospital.”

“I’m scared,” Will whispers, before another contraction steals his ability to speak. 

Hannibal gets a shoulder under Will’s arm and bears his weight. “I’m right here with you, Will,” he assures. 

“What if something happens? What if I can’t—” Will breaks off with a long, agonized grunt. 

Hannibal pulls Will closer, holds him for a moment. “Will, you can do this,” he whispers into his mate’s ear. “You can do this. I’ll be there with you.”

“Just don’t leave me,” Will pleads. 

“Never,” Hannibal promises. 

\--------

Hannibal wipes sweat from Will’s brow as the doctor calls, “All right, little pushes now,” over Will’s determined roaring. 

Hannibal beams at his omega. “You’re doing so well,” he says. 

Will sucks in air, lets it out in little bursts. “Fuck,” he groans. Then, louder, “Fu-uuuck, FUCK!”

“That’s it,” Hannibal encourages, offering his hand, “let it out.”

Will takes Hannibal’s hand in an absolutely crushing grip, gasping for breath. “I can’t do it,” he pants. “I can’t do it.”

The doctor looks up. “You’re almost there,” she says, enthusiastic. “Nearly there, I promise.” 

“I know you’re tired,” Hannibal murmurs, stroking his mate’s face with his free hand, “but it’s almost over.” 

“Hannibal, I can’t—” Will breaks off with a dry sob. 

“You can,” Hannibal assures him. 

“Time for a big push,” the doctor tells Will. “Get ready!”

“Come on,” Hannibal says, giving Will’s hand a little squeeze. “Deep breath.” 

Will sucks in a huge breath, filling his lungs to capacity, then throws his head forward, bellowing, and pushes with all his might. 

“One more!” the doctor calls. 

Will breathes in again, roars out. And soon the sound is joined by the first cries of an infant. 

Tears fill Hannibal’s eyes as the doctor holds up their beautiful, healthy, perfect daughter.

\--------

She has Will’s dark curls, a full head of them. Hannibal wants nothing more than to reach out and stroke them, but she and Will are both deeply involved in a feeding, and he does not dare interrupt. He can only beam at them—his omega, his mate, his beautiful Will, and the wondrous child they created.

Will’s eyes are glued to the infant suckling at his breast. His brows have remained furrowed since the feeding started. Hannibal leans over to him. Whispers, “What’s troubling you, Will?”

Will’s eyes flit to Hannibal for a moment, then return to the baby. He shakes his head lightly and whispers back, “Nothing. She’s perfect.”

Hannibal waits. 

Will looks up. “We haven’t picked out a name.”

Hannibal’s tongue darts across his lips. “In some cultures,” he says slowly, “it is customary to wait until—”

“Hannibal, they need something for the birth record.” Will shifts the baby’s weight in his arms. “This isn’t the time to wax philosophical about naming rituals.”

Hannibal pauses. “Rituals give us meaning, Will,” he says. “They are created for exactly this purpose.”

Will smiles down at the baby as she leaves the breast and squirms in her blanket. He wipes her mouth and tucks the blanket closer around her. Transfers her to his shoulder and looks back to Hannibal. “So what ritual are we using?”

Hannibal tilts his head. “What would be meaningful to you, Will?”

Will considers. Looks away. “We just...they’ll need something for the birth record.”

Hannibal nods, conceding the point. 

The baby snuffles and gurgles. Will pats her bottom absentmindedly. The baby’s quiet little noises are the only sounds in the room, wrapping around the silence spinning out between Hannibal and Will. Will brings the baby back down into the crook of his arm, stares lovingly at her face, runs the very tip of a finger down her nose. Hannibal leans in, strokes at her palm, smiles as her tiny hand closes around his finger. “Who are you, little one?” he whispers to her.

Will takes a breath, begins to speak, breaks off. Hannibal looks up from the baby’s face to his mate’s. Will draws breath again. “I was thinking,” he says, “maybe we could call her...Abigail.”

Hannibal looks down to the baby again. Says gently, “I think that would be too painful. For both of us.”

Will meets Hannibal’s eyes at last. “Did you...do you have anything in mind?” he asks.

Hannibal holds Will’s gaze. Ponders. “She is so beautiful, Will,” he says, melting a little. “Perhaps we should call her Helen.” 

Will smiles. “Helen of Troy?”

Hannibal gives a small nod. “The greatest beauty of the ancient world.”

“Helena,” Will suggests. “To make it her own.”

“Helena,” Hannibal tries. Takes his finger from her tiny grip and strokes her rosy cheek. “Helena.” He presses a kiss to Will’s forehead. “It’s perfect, Will.” 

Will looks down at his angelic daughter, then up at his teary-eyed alpha. He leans his forehead against Hannibal’s cheek. Sighs. Smiles. Closes his eyes. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes it is.”


End file.
